Crowded
by Platinum Egoiste
Summary: Alistair and Anora are made king and queen, husband and wife. Anora's perspectives on their marriage, her husband, and her discomfort with his mistress, the Warden.
1. Duty

This will be a small collection of post-game slices of married life between Anora and Alistair with his mistress, the female Warden. Mostly in Anora's perspective. Includes a hardened, and therefore angsty, Alistair. The chapters, each their own short story, will be somewhat connected but aren't actually in any specific or chronological order (so it may be confusing? I hope not.)

Important tip: _read slowly cause they're really short._

First one: on loveless sex.

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**Duty**

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_Duty_ is the proper word for it now.

There is no intimacy, no wavering hands or soft eyes, no whimpers or sweet words, no kissing. There is a quiet in the dim room during these times, where the air is penetrated only by the rustle of linen and involuntary sounds from an instinct long buried within.

Anora does not mind him during this _duty_. She has long forgotten (and perhaps misses) times of caresses and hot breaths with her last husband. There will be no more late night—early morning—conversations, when her hair was down and neither had a crown to attend; when she and Cailan would speak of simpler things such as the flowers in the garden, the cooks' recent pastries, or the features of the heir that eluded them (_with her nose and mouth but his gentler eyes_).

During these nights, she takes note of Alistair. She studies his shut eyes, his mouth in a faint frown, his eyebrows furrowed at his efforts and perhaps frustration. Sometimes, he buries his head on her shoulder, in the crook of her neck, on the pillow.

He does not look at her.

After they finish, he moves to _his_ edge of the bed, immediately gathering his trousers and a thin robe. Anora remains on her back, pulling the sheets up to her chest, gazing at the ceiling above. Sometimes he sleeps, as far from her as the bed will allow. Most nights, he leaves their sanctuary of linen, stokes the fireplace once or twice for her, and exits the room with a quiet '_goodnight_.'

It is during these nights that the room is coldest.

"Am I that revolting to you?" She asks one night, after a session of their _duty_. She has managed to pluck up the will to ask, even though she already knew the answers that lie ahead. He turns to her, already standing and half-dressed. His face, usually with a mask around her, was cracked with worry (_or guilt_), like an adulterous lover, caught.

"No," was his answer laced with caution as he continues to don his robe. This night, he is slower and more deliberate as he nudges the dying flames of the fireplace. The ceiling does not offer the same solace this night and she turns, facing away from him as she hears his steps make their way towards the door. She notices his hesitation at the door.

"You are the queen, and I your king, Anora," He says heavily, as if he had been preparing—dreading—this for a while. "But she…she is my all."

He takes his exit, with no '_goodnight'_ this time and his words sealing a silent confession and conclusion between the two (_plus one_) of them of the future to come. A breeze enters the room but it is not why Anora shivers.


	2. Alone

Second one: On being alone together.

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**Alone**

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As hard as it is to believe, Anora tries to love her husband.

A king and queen are cursed with the lack of privacy; there are fellow nobles, relatives, knights, clerics, servants, cooks, and even a particular dog that demands their attention. There are always visiting ambassadors to greet, courts to visit, riots to quell, and darkspawn to cause worry. Even at their barest, each action must be made with caution: how will the public see it? Will this arl of this particular arling keep support of the crown? Will the King approve of this legislative action? (Not that Anora needed to ask Alistair often.)

In the time between them spent alone together, Anora tries to gain the trust of her King. She attempts to understand her husband (_fellow prisoner_).

She finds his mask too strong in their public events. Eamon had taught the boy (_too_) well: Alistair has learned to speak with grace even to the most brash Orlesian emissary; to hold Anora's hand or how to tolerate dances with her and other ridiculously painted-up women (_we need to show strong monarchs, not two children who sit all day and pout_, Teagan had bellowed at the two once); to hide his disgust at the exorbitance of the nobles around them (_she figures that he will never get used to attending courts_).

He has been hardened, cooler than pure lyrium rocks and just as dangerous. She finds relief _and_ worry in the lack of humour in his speech, preferring the days when he would deflect her questions with jest and laughter. At least in those days, she could get an accurate read on him. Now, Alistair bears the countenance of his half-brother and none of the mirth that connected them so.

Anora wonders if Alistair is hollow, empty, like a mail of splint ready for its guard and for the abuse to come, but finds a strength glowing behind his mask. It is dim, not out of weakness, but out of necessity, even out of greed. Behind this strength is something he treasures, a token to provide support through his harsher days, something he does **not** want revealed to the maw of the public. She has always suspected—nay, _known—_this presence, perhaps _envious_ of its power, so pungent and powerful that even seasoned templars forget the sweet song of lyrium behind this draught. _A woman._

She suspects that they have and will never be alone.


	3. The Other Woman

Third: On the third wheel

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**The Other Woman**

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Anora remembers the first time she saw the Grey Warden.

The Warden had stood in the door way, wearing a blood-stained suit of mail. Her face betrayed both confusion at the sight of Anora in armor (that was never a good idea) and relief at the queen's well-being. Her hair clung to her cheeks, unkempt because of the fighting and sticky with blood and sweat. She was armed, of course, and followed by an uncharactaristically odd group (_A mage, an elf, and a dog? Or was it a dwarf? _Anora ponders. She cannot remember anymore.) The Warden grinned with ease, despite the fact that she had just cleared out the arl's entire palace, and she had let out a joking quip about Anora's "battledress." As if that was the proper time!

She is also shorter that Anora expects. In the time she spent locked away in Howe's castle, Anora tried to envision her savior, though all she knew about the Warden was that she was female. She was faintly envious of this mysterious Warden; Loghain's scouts told reports of a dazzling and fiercely strong woman burning her way through Fereldan, set on murdering the regent. Anora pictured a tall and graceful warrior who cut down her enemies with grace, a stealthy rogue who dashed out of the shadows with blades pointed at necks and hearts, or perhaps a mage-enchantress who turned even the toughest Ogre into solid ice. She wanted legions of silver-armored soldiers at the Warden's call, men and women enraptured by the her cunning and leadership. Anora pictured (_wished for_) a woman that mirrored _herself_, a counterpart of sorts or a sister of even skill.

Anora cannot decide if she was disappointed or not. At first she was grateful and considered herself lucky that the Warden would even talk to her, despite Anora's small betrayal during the confrontation with Ser Cauthrien (_That was the Warden's fault_, she justifies it later on. _She shouldn't have outed me so_.).

She remembers the Warden's entrance into Eamon's office later on. Four of them had been in there for a day and a half, planning and arguing over what should be done for their captured comrade. Alistair had been furious, trying to piece out how _exactly_ the Warden had been captured and how _exactly_ had Anora contributed to the current predicament. Eamon debated whether to send a small force or an entire legion to rescue her, as Riordan tried to persaude them to use the other party fellows for the job (_That elf, Zevran, could do the job nicely_, he added.) Anora was ready to pull her hair out and go send the rescue party herself when the door creaked open. Eamon barked angrily, thinking it was a foolish servant or a whiny noble needling for attention. Instead the Warden ambled in, trailing blood and a faceless maid behind her (_The blood! The stains, milady!)_.

This is the second time Anora has seen the Warden covered in blood.

The four had immediately gone silent. They watched as the Warden limped towards them, smiling weakly. One of her hands gripped an arm, which was crimson with both dried and fresh blood from a slash. Anora remembers clearly staring at that graping wound (_How does someone endure that and walk on?)_. Her eyes were dark and baggy, one even blacked, accented by the flush on her cheeks. Her eyebrows furrowed, betraying the cool facade she had wanted. The Warden's once long hair had been hacked, leaving a terrifying mop on her head, exposed by the lack of a helm. Alistair was the first to react, rushing towards her (_his beloved)_ and greeting her with a careful embrace and a chance to examine her wounds. At this point, the Warden's legs had given and had leaned her weight onto Alistair. Riordan rushed out to find, clamoring for a healer, only to find the maid and an elderly mage (_Winifred? Wynne?_) pushing past him. Both Eamon and Anora stared.

Eamon stared silently at the Warden's wounds, more of which were revealed as Alistair gingerly removed the Warden's armor. He stared at the blood that was to seep into the floor, a stain of their indecision and failure to their comrade. He stared at the mage as she worked her magic over the Warden's form. Anora simply stared at the Warden herself. She watched the Warden, who let Alistair recline her unkempt form to the floor while as he whispered wisps of joy and love. She watched the Warden close her eyes as she was stripped of her metals and soaked robes. She watched the woman who cleaned the Fort Drakon and Ferelden of its horrors skinned of her pride in full view of everyone.

And the same scene played again, when the Landsmeet cheered on upon the Warden's proclamation of Alistair and Anora's union.

And again, as the Grand Cleric presented the new King and Queen. Anora remembers scanning the crowd as they took their bow; there was the Warden in the front, sans the armor, the weapons, and the blood-soaked _everything_, smiling even as her love married another.

Anora had expected to find a twin in the Warden but she decides that that would have never been. There is no mirror within her, no easy reflection to admire. The Warden had given too much, shed too much, and taken too little from the world around her. Anora wonders how the Warden had survived; why she did not collapse under her world of responsibilities; how she pulled an entire nation together; why the Warden did not simply take the throne beside Alistair (_It would have been so easy, even with her background_). She had been weaker and stronger than Anora expected, a single paragon of both extremes she hated and desired. How does someone give herself so willingly? How does one endure so much? How does she still hold so much power?

At the end of it all, the Queen knows she could never rival the Warden.


	4. Worship

Written a little differently than the others, I think. Couldn't articulate as well as I wanted to, but I tried -_-'

Fourth: On selfishness.

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**Worship**

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Alistair's love for runes and all things mythic is not a secret. Every now and then, the royal palace will receive packages of statues or runes. Sometimes, these giant shipments are from nearby countries or city-states, eager to gain the favor of the new Fereldan King. Sometimes, Alistair himself orders these treasures on a whim. Anora is uncertain of where her husband deposits his hoard. She has seen the royal gardens with these statues of obscure figures, hidden in strategic places; the libraries filled with books with legends among tomes of magic; and even finds the occassional statuette in the baths.

When she confronted him about his soon-to-be hoarding, he looked a little sheepish. He grinned. "It's not like I'm draining the state treasury or anything. They're _my _shiny things."

Anora has seen Alistair in private with his so-called shiny things. She would find him alone in a garden or in their suite, gazing upon the current object of his affection. If it was a runestone or a statuette, he would finger upon every curve or crack; for statues, he would stand there, staring at the muse's delicate details. When he sensed her presence, he would shoo her away as nicely as possible (_'Oh, Teagan was looking for you'_ or _'There's a new tariff for you to address in the study'_). Anora would wonder what he is thinking, why he finds these things so terribly fascinating.

She asked Eamon about Alistair's addiction. The old man chuckled, surprised at Anora's curiousity. "The boy worships his legends; great tales of heroes, archdemons, and even princesses from dark towers. Alistair loved the war stories of eras gone. Once he hears a one, he just _devours _it. He wants to keep some of the glory. As a Grey Warden, he loved being with the fabled heroes themselves." Eamon chuckled again at this last part; Anora was annoyed. Why couldn't anyone give her a straight answer?

Once, the crown received a statue of the _Hero of Ferelden_, the mysterious Warden in all her whitestone glory. She was poised _heroically_, in mid-swing with a greatsword. Her stone armor was intricate, with the hereld of the Grey Wardens splashed on the chest. Her face was contorted into a _heroic _indifference: _one more step towards the glorious end!_ The details on the greaves, the gauntlets-it was the work of a master. It was placed in the main garden, in the central fountain. The servants were pleased with themselves, thinking that their King would be overjoyed. _Such a beautiful statue in a beautiful place_, they must have thought, swooning over the Warden's form. When Alistair was presented with the statue—it was some garden party or tea with a visiting emissary or what not—he was amused, with a mischievious glint in his eyes. No one else seemed to notice this. The remaining nobles inquired him about the lovely statue; the 'did she _really _look like that, and where could _I _get one of those's. He answered with a forced smile, and merely answered that it was a gift, that _yes, isn't it lovely_, and _look at __**those **__details_. Anora kept quiet, as she herself knew nothing about the piece's origins.

It looked nothing like the Warden herself (_too tall, eyes too wide, a frame too lithe for a warrior, and armor inappropriate for battle_). Why keep such an item if it did nothing but confuse others? Eamon and the older nobles were also beguiled by the misguided statue, but said nothing to correct it. Teagan theorized that it was for the Warden's safety. (_Best for no one to know her true appearance_, he shook his head. _I don't understand why Alistair would still keep it though._)

"Why keep it?" Anora finally brought it up to her husband during a quiet dinner. "Why keep the horrid thing?"

He looked at her as if she were crazy, then became amused when he realized the object of her questions. "Ah, the Hero's statue?"

"It is most certainly **not **she. I would think that even _you_ should know that."

"Of course, of course," Alistair grinned, poking at his food absently. "I thought you of all people would understand, dear wife."

"Understand what exactly? That we wish to misguide visitors with wrong Heroes and idiot Kings?"

"Exactly! I'm simply hiding our valuables, locking my treasures away."

He avoided her icy glare by looking at his plate. She did not understand. The King now had a more wistful look on his face.

"A good legend doesn't need to be told twice."

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Confused? Alistair love/loved the Warden, wants to keep her for himself, in a different way than anyone thinks. He keeps the statue that doesn't look like her, lets everyone who doesn't already know, since perhaps the Warden is out of the current public's eye, think that** that **is the famed Hero, when he holds the true Hero/Warden for himself.


End file.
